Talking
by Zee Viate
Summary: Conversations and one-shots focused on Tony and Gibbs. Warning for language.
1. Medals, Gibbs and Jenny

**Gibbs and Jenny-**Five months after the events of 'Requiem'.

________________

Gibbs picked up the slick sheet newsletter set atop the mail just deposited on his desk. He half smiled when he saw the headline. The smile very quickly became a frown as he scanned the photos and text on the front page. He looked diagonally across to see his senior field agent engrossed in something on his computer screen. He picked up the newsletter and headed up the stairs.

Gibbs entered Director Sheppard's office, slapped the newsletter down on her desk and stabbed it with an index finger.

"You need to have somebody explain this."

Jenny picked it up and glanced at it briefly before placing it back on her desk.

"It's only the fifth time you've missed out in fifteen years, Jethro. You can't expect to be chosen as a finalist every time."

"You know damn well I couldn't care less whether my name's on there or not."

"Then why did you barge in here breathing fire?"

"Why isn't DiNozzo on there? None of them come close to doing what he did."

"I don't remember you submitting his name for consideration."

"I knew you would."

"The nominations were open, Jethro. If you thought he deserved the award, you should have nominated him yourself. Did you ever mention to him you thought he should get it?"

"No. He knows I don't believe in it."

"Then why are you so upset he's not in the running?"

"Because he deserves it!"

"Yes, he does," Jenny agreed.

"It doesn't bother you that he's getting screwed over this way?" Gibbs asked.

"What bothers me is that you're standing there raging over something that you claim is meaningless."

"It's meaningless to me because I'm not a glory hound."

"And, Tony is?"

"You know what I mean, Jen."

She smiled and nodded.

"I did try to nominate Tony. I had everything ready to go-the scene photos, my recommendation typed, the forms all filled out. Only one thing kept me from sending it on. All submissions have to be accompanied by witness affidavits. I'm sure they would have interviewed you at some point as part of the selection process. But, Tony was the only witness to everything that happened. I asked him to type it up and turn it in but he kept putting it off. Right before the deadline, I cornered him and told him I had to have it that day or I couldn't submit his name for the award. He shrugged, said 'Maybe next year.' and walked away. He essentially blocked his own nomination."

"Why?"

"He knows how you feel about attention and awards. Maybe he wants to be like you when he grows up."

Gibbs scowled and Jenny smiled.

"I don't know, Jethro. Speaking solely as Director, I was relieved the whole incident wasn't going to be put under a spotlight. It would have been awkward for both the agency and you personally. You're right. Tony should have won this year. Which would have meant the Meritorious Civilian Award would go to one agent for saving a rogue fellow agent from his own pigheaded st-"

"I don't embarrass easy, Jen," Gibbs interrupted her. "Both I and the agency could have taken the heat if there even was any. Tony knows that."

"I'm sure he does. As I said, I don't know why he did it. Why don't you ask him? You two can have a nice long talk about it. I'm sure you've already discussed the whole incident at length. Admitted that it was your decisions that put you all at risk. That you've eloquently expressed your appreciation of Tony going above and beyond, risking his life to save yours." She paused.

"In two words or less."


	2. Medals 2, Tony & Gibbs

Gibbs left Sheppard's office. He came down the stairs, walked by Tony's desk, crooked a finger at Tony to follow and led him into the elevator. Once inside, he pushed the stop button.

"What?" Tony asked. "What'd I do?"

Gibbs handed him the newsletter. Tony looked down at it then handed it back to him.

"Better luck next time, Boss."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why'd you turn it down?"

"I'd have to win it to turn it down. I wasn't nominated, so winning isn't an option and turning it down is out of the question. Why would you think I'd even be nominated? You have to do something pretty spectacular to be nominated. Are you saying I did do something pretty spectacular? Refresh my memory. What do you think I've ever done that could possibly qualify me-Oh, wait a minute. I think I might have it. The thing with the running and the shooting and the diving and the car. Is that the thing you mean?"

"Why'd you turn down the nomination?"

"What makes you think I turned down a nomination?"

"Jenny."

"That's a strange subject to come up out of the blue. The nominations closed weeks ago. She just now suddenly comes up to you and tells you I turned it down? Is that how it happened, she brought it up?"

"Answer the question."

"Why do you care why I didn't want it? You think it's all bullshit anyway."

"DiNozzo-"

"No, I want to know. Why is it suddenly such a big deal now? It wasn't a big deal five months ago."

"It was always a big deal."

"Oh, really? That's why you said, 'You did good, Tony' and never brought it up again?"

"What'd you want me to do, write you a poem and send you flowers?"

"No. I mean, yeah, maybe a little more recognition would have been nice. But, you're you. I don't expect you to stop being you just because I nailed a couple of bad guys and pulled you out of a car."

"If you wanted recognition, why'd you turn down the medal?"

"What difference does it make?"

Gibbs only stared back at him in response. Tony took a deep breath then spoke.

"Okay, okay, if you just simply must know, I'll tell you why." He paused a second. "Because the drawer's full."

Gibbs glared and Tony grinned. Gibbs punched the start button and stalked out as soon as the doors opened. Tony rolled his eyes and followed after him.

"So, that's how it works?" Tony asked. "You think that's fair? I get four words from you but you expect me to spill my guts on cue?"

Gibbs stopped behind the staircase wall and turned to face Tony.

"Thank you for saving my life. Now, you got ten. Is that enough for you or do you need more?"

"I tried," Tony said. Gibbs raised a questioning eyebrow. Tony was silent a few seconds before he sighed then spoke.

"I was begging on that pier, Boss. On man, was I begging. Nonstop until I saw you breathing again. For a while there, I thought you were dead. Maybe I don't usually do humble so well, but I can still do grateful when I should. Asking for that medal just seemed to be..." He paused and shook his head. "Greedy, stealing thunder, tempting fate, I don't know."

He shrugged.

"I don't need a souvenir as a reminder. You lived. That's enough."


	3. Family, Tim and Ducky

McGee and Ducky were sitting having lunch at a table in a Navy Yard commissary when Special Agent Lloyd Macklin walked up. Macklin had joined NCIS two years earlier, soon after his discharge from the Marine Corps. He was a hulk of a man, 6'4, 285 pounds of solid, well-defined muscle and he still maintained a Corps-worthy buzz cut. He idolized Special Agent Jethro Gibbs and had repeatedly voiced his wish to someday make Gibbs' team. He loved the Corps, the Agency and his country. One thing he did not love was Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo. Their first meeting had ended with Tony offering to refer Macklin to a doctor who could help him with his bug-up-the-ass problem and things had gone downhill from there.

During one of their clashes, DiNozzo had substituted 'Roid' for Lloyd when addressing Macklin. Gibbs had overheard and intervened, publicly dressing Tony down. Gibbs usually ignored Tony's jibes directed at his fellow employees, handing out only an occasional head slap or rebuke to shut him up. Apparently, though, making unwarranted allusions to drug use by a fellow agent was a Gibbs hot button issue and not allowed. Tony never made the allusion again. But, unfortunately for Macklin, Gibbs wasn't the only one who had over heard and the nickname stuck, albeit only outside Macklin's earshot.

In a rare circumstance concerning Tony and harassment, Macklin was the instigator, going out of his way to find a reason to belittle or confront DiNozzo. Tony walked away from every clash with a smile on his face which only served to provoke Macklin more.

Lloyd had come to their table fresh from his latest encounter with Tony. Macklin had maneuvered an 'accidental' shoulder bumping entering the commissary as Tony exited. When Macklin took exception to the contact he'd caused, Tony challenged him to a match of air fencing to settle the dispute. DiNozzo had drawn and flourished an imaginary sword as Macklin glared back at him. Tony made a forward lunge, called out 'touche', made a little bow to the pretty female probie who'd watched and giggled, sheathed his air sword and left.

"How the hell did an ignorant, arrogant moron like him ever make it on Gibbs' team?" Lloyd asked.

"He smiled," Tim answered.

"Huh?"

Tim shrugged. "Believe me, I've wondered the same thing myself. That's the only answer I've been able to get."

"I hate that shit eating grin of his!" Macklin said, taking a seat at the table. "Smiley, smiley, smiley sonuvabitch."

"Very irritating," Tim said.

"He's a real pain in the ass."

"Royal," Tim agreed.

"He is so full of himself, he struts around here like a banty rooster."

"More like a peacock, I'd say," McGee said, "With tail fully fanned."

"Yeah, you see what I'm saying. And, that mouth of his, he won't shut up. Sometimes I just want to-" Lloyd slammed his fist into his other hand's palm.

"Oh, believe me, I know the feeling." Tim said.

"Gibbs is righteous, hard core. He's a Marine! Why'd he want him?"

"Lloyd, everybody, including me, wonders the same thing. It defies logic that Gibbs would pick a guy like DiNozzo for the team. I can't explain it."

At this point, Ducky was openly frowning at McGee and looked on the verge of speaking but was stopped when Tim continued.

"What I can explain is why he's kept him on his team. He's way smarter than most people realize, he's an excellent marksman, loyal, dedicated, hard working and does the job as well as, if not better, than anyone else I've ever come across. He also has cojones the size of Texas. Those are pretty rare, something you can't get pumping iron in a gym."

"If you plan on having something other than sour grapes for lunch, you're welcome to join us. Otherwise..."

Macklin scowled at Tim, pushed away from the table, stood and stalked off.

Ducky smiled and resumed eating his lunch.


	4. Walking, Tim and Abby

Tony, for the first time in a long time wearing jeans rather than a suit, headed out of the squad room. As Abby watched him walk away until he was out of sight, Tim watched Abby.

"You seem awfully interested in DiNozzo's departure," Tim said.

"Research," Abby answered.

"Research?"

"Yes, research. I'm working from the hypothesis that underlying personality issues often manifest in gait."

"Gate?"

"Not gate as in Pearly. Gait, as in walk. The perp walk should be a forensic profiling tool, not just a photo op. I have to establish parameters and correlations and subtract subjectivity and compile data. It'll be way cool when I make it into the books."

She crossed her wrists in front of her, palms out, then spread her arms wide.

"The Scuito Stridology Index of Trait Indicators."

Tim raised an eyebrow. "Stridology?"

"Seriously, McGee. Think about it. They use handwriting experts to supposedly profile, but handwriting's lame. If you didn't know Tony which would tell you more about him-his handwriting or his walk? Tony mainly swaggers and struts, sometimes saunters. And Gibbs, Gibbs strides and stalks, on very rare occasions ambles. Now, while Tony does sometimes stalk, Gibbs never, ever struts. I mean, can you even imagine Gibbs strutting? No way! You can tell a lot about a person by the way they navigate from point A to point B."

"What about me?"

"You just walk."

"Gee, thanks Abs."

"Nononono, Timmy! That's a good thing!"

"Like Muzak and white bread?"

"No, like you're comfortable in your loafers. Your gait has no underlying issues, you don't try to project or hide-you just walk."

"The Scuito Stridolgy Index of Trait Indicators," Tim said. Abby nodded.

Tim raised his chin and squinted at her.

"Really?" Tim asked.

Abby lightly cuffed his arm.

"No, not really, silly." She shrugged. "Tony has a nice caboose."

Abby smiled and leaned to kiss him on the cheek.

"But, yours is nicer."


	5. Father's Day, Tony

**A/N: **This is set a few months after _Twilight._

_-------------_

Tony lifted the corner of the file on his desk and looked down at the pair of tickets hidden underneath.

Three weeks ago, he'd gone to get concert tickets for his date next weekend with the blonde from the coffee shop. The tickets under the folder had been an impulse buy, prompted by a flyer on the counter. They were for a boat show that included a special exhibition of wooden hulled oldies. Buying the tickets had seemed like a good idea only about as long as it took to pay for them. Immediately afterward started all the reasons it was a bad idea. Reasons that were in his thoughts now and every other time he had tried to take the tickets out of hiding.

Reason number one-while Gibbs did build boats, there was no evidence that he enjoyed just looking at them.

Number two-they didn't socialize one-on-one outside work. Well, maybe they did, occasionally. But, never on purpose or planned. Not in a friend's 'You want to come over and watch the game this weekend' kind of way. Only in a, at the end of the day, 'You hungry?' kind of way. They'd end up eating together and having a few beers but it wasn't like it was Tony's company that mattered. A man had to eat.

It was too late now, anyway. If he was going to do it, he should have done it sooner when the date wouldn't be so obvious. But, he had put it off until it was too late to just casually ask 'You busy the 17th?'. Because, the 17th was this Sunday, the third Sunday in June. Which was reason number three and the biggest reason of all. Which had Tony looking down now at the tickets and seeing macaroni.

So, who was the genius that first designated macaroni as a kid's art medium? Deciding, hey, this stuff'll be swell glued to construction paper in some grotesque approximation of what the kid can't even draw yet much less render in elbow pasta.

He had thought it was stupid and had said so. His first grade teacher had replied that it was the thought that counted, but Tony didn't think so. Stupid was still stupid and all the thinking in the world wasn't going to turn a starchy mess on paper into something his father would want. Maybe Tony was a lot of not-the-best-things, but he wasn't stupid. He'd gone along with the class and made the card. But, once out of his teacher's sight, he'd tossed it into the first available trash can.

He glanced over at Gibbs and was startled to see Gibbs squinting back at him. Tony hurriedly mustered a big grin but Gibbs kept the squint and Tony quickly looked down to his computer monitor and began blindly tapping the keys.

Buying those tickets had definitely been a bad idea. Maybe he could have pulled it off if he'd been able to convince himself it only was about the boats. Because, hey, it was boats and Gibbs was a boat man. But, from his first attempt, he'd heard Kate's voice calling him a liar. Kate, who had derided what she called his hero worship and immaturity, was suddenly there in his head, eavesdropping and mocking him from the beyond.

"_Yeah, right. It's all about the boats. Sure, it is."_

So, okay, fine. Maybe it wasn't all about the boats. Maybe the date had something to do with why he bought the tickets. So what? What if he did like the idea of spending that day, for the first time in his life, not alone? Why was that a problem? Was there something, outside the facts that it was one-sided and borderline pathetic, so wrong about that?

"_Grow up, Tony."_

She was right. She did, after all, have the Good Book on her side-the whole put away childish things thing. And, Gibbs probably had plans. A tradition set; his own way of spending the day. Most likely involving the three Bs. Bourbon, boat, basement. Add an 'M' for memories, a 'K' for Kelly. No place for 'T' as in Tony in the equation. Grow up, Tony.

He slid the tickets from under the folder and dropped them in the trash.


	6. Warriors Walk, Tony&Gibbs

Tony was stretched in the fully reclined front passenger seat, eyes closed, trying to relax. Even though he hadn't had twelve hours sleep over the last three nights combined, he couldn't wind down, much less doze. It was more than Gibbs' driving that interfered with his attempt. The aftereffects of their latest case had him wired. He was looking forward to a night on the town to take the edge off. He not only deserved it, he needed it to decompress. It had been an unrelenting and intense last four days, run at a more breakneck pace than usual.

The urgency had come from the fact that their victim, Miranda Courtland, was possibly still alive. Her abduction by her estranged husband, navy Lt. David Courtland, had been witnessed. She hadn't been seen again for the next four days.

Adding to the pressure of the case had been the presence of Miranda's parents. They had come down from Wisconsin to await her rescue. They were sure she would be rescued, they'd said. David wouldn't hurt her, he loved her. He wasn't violent, only unhinged by the separation.

Tony knew that, rather than deal with the unbearable likelihood of the loss of their daughter, they chose denial, working to convince themselves more than him. He could sympathize with their reluctance to acknowledge that unhinged was dangerously unpredictable. Their not wanting to consider that their son-in-law, a member of their family for seven years, had forced their daughter into his car at gunpoint. The ultimate act of violence was only a trigger pull away.

Miranda had been taken on December 17th, today was the 21st. The date shouldn't matter, but it did. A tragic outcome to a case was hard to take anytime. So close to Christmas would be even worse.

Especially as Miranda wasn't just a victim, she was Tom and Anita Morgan's daughter and only child. Who had worn Care Bear pajamas when Santa brought her first bike and been especially proud of the reindeer cookies she'd made the year she was seven.

The Christmas photo album had made the trip down with the Morgans. It had been clutched to Anita's chest during the interview, paged through with commentary at the interview's conclusion. Tony had looked and listened and smiled and desperately hoped they could return Miranda to her parents, alive.

His hope had been fulfilled that morning. A tip from a motel clerk had led them to the room where Courtland had held his wife. Miranda's parents had their happy ending. And, Tony was ready to celebrate.

Only the flight home was on the agenda for tomorrow, so he could sleep off even a massive hangover without interference to his duties. His Savannah hotel room was only a three mile taxi ride from River Street. He'd gotten a teasing glimpse of the area questioning a boutique owner who was a close friend of Miranda's. Since then, he'd been looking forward to good food eaten in leisure rather than fast food shoved down in haste, good music and strong alcohol. By rights, he should have already been , if not buzzed, then well on his way.

But it was his teammates who, most likely, were already on their third or fourth round. They had gotten the infinitely preferable task of taking Miranda's statement and being present for the joyful reunion of parents and child. While he had gone first to the medical center then been stuck traveling with Gibbs to make the 180 mile round trip to deliver the perpetrator to the brig at Kings Bay Naval Base.

Tony had been peeved that he'd been the one tapped to accompany Gibbs.

He had been injured. Granted, seven stitches for a gash caused by rolling over a broken beer bottle didn't measure high on the wounded scale. And, judging from his unsuccessful attempt to hide the grimaces and limp, the blow Gibbs had taken to his bad knee was a more troublesome and painful result of David's brief escape attempt than Tony's laceration. Courtland, whose desperate lunge for freedom while handcuffed had caused it all, had survived their tumble down the last two stairs with the least repercussion-only a bit of road rash to his forehead and elbow.

Tony's arm throbbed and itched and he squirmed in the seat trying to get more comfortable. It was totally unfair that the unscathed Tim and Ziva were probably already partying down by the river while he was still, past 9:00pm, stuck riding with Gibbs.

The car stopped and he opened his eyes. Not to the hotel parking lot as expected, but to a small building with a uniformed soldier in the door way. To his left, he saw cars lined up at an entrance gate. He looked to find an identifying sign. They were parked at Fort Stewart. Great, Tony thought, just great! Yet another military installation when he had thought they were done with them for the day, done with the case itself.

"Army, Boss? What does army have to do with-"

"It's not for the case, DiNozzo. I gotta drop something off. A favor for a friend. Give me your badge."

His arm twanged and burned where the stitches pulled as he reached for his ID. He passed it to Gibbs who left the car and stepped into the building. He returned a few minutes later, starting the car without comment. Once Tony's badge wallet was back in his jacket pocket, he closed his eyes again and slumped down into the seat, hoping whatever business Gibbs had here was done soon.

They drove less than five minutes before stopping. Tony heard Gibbs open then close the car door and walk away.

DiNozzo opened his eyes expecting to see a building. He was surprised to instead see acres of trees lining both sides of long, parallel concrete walkways. Each tree was individually lit by an angled light from the ground at its front, bleaching portions of the trunks and limbs bone white, glowing in the night. On a few of the trees, the light illuminated splashes of color, what looked like ornaments scattered amongst the stark, leafless branches.

Curious, Tony left the car and walked toward the two brick pillars at the walkway's start. He leaned close to read the writing on a plaque on the pillar to his left, the words hard to make out in the dark. Warriors Walk.

As he stepped onto the path, he saw the rectangular, polished granite marker before the first tree and read the name engraved there. Sgt. David Alvarez. He looked across the field at the hundreds of trees and felt the tug in his chest, the emotion unique to memorials to those who had died in service.

Any cause could be questioned, any battle debated. But, he believed that one of history's absolutes that held true through every generation was the debt of gratitude and respect owed those who had died to deliver the nation and still offered their lives to defend and preserve it.

Gazing down the walkway he saw that every tree held two things in common in the cedar chip circles surrounding their trunk's base-an American flag and an evergreen wreath with a red bow. Outside that, every individual tree's mementos were different. As he walked slowly down the path, Tony looked at the vast variety of things left in memory of lives lived.

There were crosses propped at the bases of many trees; a 1:24 scale die cast Harley at one. He saw ceramic and stone cast eagles, elephants, horses. Garden foot stones imprinted with inspirational sayings, a weathered Gameboy, a football, a long neck bottle of Budweiser.

Propped against one tree's trunk was a warped and faded card-folded sheet of green construction paper, its bottom edge disintegrating into the cedar chips. Drawn on the front in crayon was a triangle Christmas tree. Written underneath the tree in a child's handwriting was 'Merry Christmas Daddy'.

Tony hurried his pace to join Gibbs who was standing beside a marker bearing the name 'Spc. Jeffrey J. Avery'.

DiNozzo took a silent moment to look over the items at Jeffrey Avery's tree. There were the American flag and the wreath. Also, a two foot high L-post hung with a banner. Tony recognized the 3rd Infantry Division's blue and white diagonally striped insignia set against a red and blue background. Hung over a lowermost branch, flush with the tree's trunk, was a pair of brass spurs that, underlit by Avery's light, shone gold against the night sky.

"A friend?" Tony asked. Gibbs shook his head.

"I never met him. I served with his father. Jeff was in the Guard. An IED took him down in September. Jim's deployed."

Gibbs reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a Christmas ornament.

It was a four inch tall plastic Santa Claus figurine with a gold hanging loop. He was dressed in the traditional red outfit stretched over a bulging belly, the typical overflowing bag of toys slung over a shoulder. Recognition of Santa's unexpected, familiar face prompted a smile and a "Doh!" out of Tony.

Gibbs squinted at him.

Tony pointed to the ornament in his hand. "Homer, Boss. That's Homer Simpson."

"Yeah, that's what Jim wanted, the Simpsons. The kid loved the Simpsons. This is one of the main guys, right?"

"Oh yeah. He's the dad. Some might argue that Bart's the bigger star of the show. But, Homer, he's the glue, the axis, the yin to Bart's yang. He's the center of the Simpsons universe. Without Homer to play off of, Bart's just another smart assed brat. I'm especially fond of Sideshow Bob, myself. You ever watch Frasier?"

"No." Gibbs said. His tone made it clear that not only had he never seen Frasier, he had no interest whatsoever in anything Tony might have to offer on the subject of Frasier.

So, Tony stayed silent. Gibbs stood there with the ornament in his hand. After a few seconds, DiNozzo realized that, with his bum knee, it would be a tortuous maneuver for Gibbs to go down to place the ornament at the base of the tree. He watched Gibbs make a reach towards the branches, stop to glance at the spurs, then drop his hand back by his side.

Apparently, Gibbs preferred not to disrupt the dignified tableau by hanging Homer Santa Claus on the same level as the Cavalryman's honor.

"Gimme," Tony said and Gibbs handed Homer off. DiNozzo crouched down and set the figure against the trunk, nestling the feet securely into the cedar chips. As Tony stood, Gibbs was pulling a digital camera from his pocket. DiNozzo raised an eyebrow. The team leader's disdain for digital, insisting on using 'real' cameras, was well known.

"It's easier to send pictures," Gibbs said as he grabbed Tony's wrist and brought it up to place the camera in his hand.

DiNozzo took photos from different angles and distances making sure to focus on each individual item placed there as well as the entire tree. The last shot was a close up of the ornament, Homer grinning back at him through the viewfinder like a happy, glowing specter in the camera's night vision mode. He returned the camera to Gibbs.

As soon as it was back in his pocket, Gibbs began to walk away. Tony lingered behind to salute Jeffrey Avery by way of a murmured 'cowabunga, dude' before turning to leave.

The view down the walkway stopped him. Gibbs, in black silhouette, moving forward, flanked on either side by the memories of the fallen. It would make a helluva closing movie scene, Tony thought. The hero's shadow ghosting down the path, doing a slow fade-away, dissolving into the night as the credits rolled. Title card-_Where Warriors Walk_.

--------------

**A/N: **Warriors Walk and the annual placement of holiday wreaths are fact, both financed by donations. All names, situations and everything else in the story is fiction.


	7. Cereal, Tony, Ziva, Tim

Tony entered the squad room with less than a minute to spare before the clock ticked him late. He slung his back pack behind his desk, groaned, grimaced, opened the bottle of water in his hand and took a sip.

"Problem, Tony?" Ziva asked, watching from her desk.

"It feels like pixies in sandpaper slippers used the roof of my mouth as a skating rink."

"Hungover?"

"I am a fully dedicated federal agent, Officer David, and as such I do not drink on school nights. I am not suffering from a hangover. I'm suffering from Cap'n Crunch."

"Captain who?"

"Crunch. Cap'n Crunch. I overdid this morning. You know how it goes-you finish the first bowl, you got milk left, so you add more cereal, you add too much cereal for the milk you got left so you add more milk. It's a vicious cycle that ends with an empty box and a sore mouth. They need to slap a warning on that sucker or file the edges."

"File the edges?" Ziva asked.

From his desk, McGee rolled his eyes and spoke.

"Mr. Macho's whining because he's hurt himself eating kids' cereal, Ziva."

"The roughest of the kids' cereal, McQuisp. You couldn't handle the Cap'n. I know what your favorite cereal is: Geekies, the breakfast of chumpions."

"Unlike you, DiNozzo, both I and my appetite have matured past prepubescence. I start my day with grown up food."

"Oh really?" Tony said, "Then I guess I was hallucinating when I swung by to pick you up last week. Famished and waiting forever for you to get ready, I guess I just imagined that leprechaun hiding in your kitchen cabinet. Pink marshmallow hearts are very mature and manly."

"What can I say," Tim shrugged, unrepentant. "They are magically delicious."

"Granted," Tony answered, conceding the point.

"Leprechaun in the cupboard?" Ziva asked. "As in the Irish fairy with the pan of gold?"

"Ziva, Ziva, Ziva," Tony shook his head. "We're talking cereal. American cereal in all its gaudy, technicolor, crunchy, sugary, over-packaged, product may settle, artificially flavored, vitamin added glory. You know, Lucky Charms."

She stared back blankly.

"Come on!" Tony insisted. "Lucky Leprechaun is a cultural touchstone of this great land. You've been here, what, four months? You haven't heard the jingles, tasted the goods, seen the animated icons? Lucky the Leprechaun, the Trix rabbit, Snap Crackle Pop, Toucan Sam..."

"Coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs," Tim offered, raising an eyebrow and sending a pointed glance Tony's way.

"Perhaps," Ziva said, "I am not familiar with them because I prefer healthy food to artificial dreck and I don't spend my leisure time watching cartoons. Perhaps I am better off without exposure to either these cereals or the ads made to coerce children to want them."

"Anti-cereal, are you?" Tony asked, squinting suspiciously at Ziva.

"I enjoy a bowl of porridge now and then," Ziva said defiantly.

"Porridge?" Tony scoffed. "Only fairytale bears and fictional British orphans eat porridge. You're in America now, Ziva. Americans eat oatmeal, not porridge. Porridge is only one step up from gruel which even the name sounds slimy. Gruel," Tony winced and shuddered. "Porridge, gruel-story food, not for human consumption."

"Like crumpets," Tim said. "Except crumpets are for tea parties."

"Exactly!" Tony agreed.

"Crumpets?" Ziva asked.

"Crumpets," Tim said. "The generic, catch-all term for whatever's on hand that'll fit on the little tea set plates. Cheetos, cereal, Pop Tarts cut into small pieces. But, I had to pretend they were crumpets. And, that the apple juice or Coke was tea. And hold the tiny teacup with my pinky up because Sarah had a very rigid tea party protocol. That's how I earned my comic books. For every tea party with Sarah, I got three comic books."

"Do you have imaginary crumpets with your snooty porridge, Zee-vah?" Tony asked.

"Actually," Tim said, "Crumpets aren't imaginary. I'm not sure what they are, but they eat them in England."

"Have you ever seen one on the shelf at Kroger, Probie? Did you ever wish you could find a crumpet like your grandma made? Is there a MacCrumpet on Mickey D's menu? Are we part of the U.K.? Or, did our forefathers fight a revolution to be free of tyranny and crumpets?"

"You," Ziva said, pointing at Tony, "Are being ridiculous, obnoxious and nonsensical."

"And this surprises you, why?" Tim asked.

"No, McGee. Even for him, this xenophobic rant over children's cereal is over the roof."

"Top," Tony corrected. "Over the top."

"Could be through," Tim said. "You know, with roof. Through the roof."

"Rude nonsense!" Ziva said. "Enough! No more of your precious leprechauns or rabbits or crinkles or crazy puffs!"

"Okay, okay, okay," Tony said. "I'm sorry. Maybe I came on a little strong. But, you don't understand. My cereal is an important part of my childhood, my identity, my being, my life. My very name is cereal derived. "

Ziva gave a skeptical 'humpf'.

"No, really, I'm serious. Do you know why they called me Tony?"

Ziva didn't respond verbally, only raised a suspicious but curious eyebrow.

"Because..." Tony paused, smiled, then roared. "I'm** grrrrrrreat**!"


End file.
